Challis' hands blistered almost as soon as she touched the handle of a pitchfork. There had been so much mucking and hauling and loading in the last two days that the skin on her palms was fresh with blisters, raw skin cozying up beside the callouses she had worked so hard on all season.

The bolts of the gate screeched as it slid open. Unlike in the mud barns, these stalls were completely caged in by bars and surrounded by a buffer layer of mesh wire. Challis dug into the piles of long, dry leaves and chucked the waste out onto the floor outside the stall, where Rasalas tossed it up into a wagon. They moved with a steady rhythm. Challis relied less on her sight and more on the feel of the drifts with her pitchfork, removing anything that was compressed or clingy. She breathed in the pungent smell of the nest stalls and forced her sore muscles to push on, one movement at a time.

"Chall?" Rasalas called out after they had worked in silence for a quarter of an hour. Challis fumbled the next forkful, and it flew all over her brother's trousers. That made them both stop.

"What?" Challis asked.

"Really?" he asked at the same time.

Challis was breathing hard. She said it again, this time more annoyed. "What."

Rasalas scooped up another pile.

"What happened earlier, when you ran off?" he asked slowly. Challis would have brushed it away, but Rasalas' tone was far more sincere than accusatory. She paused, then sent another smack of soiled leaves and manure at his pants just to see his reaction.

"Father wouldn't stop going on about Hianette. As if I had time to spend ambling around with her anymore."

"Not that, I mean…" His voice took on a slow, troubled descent. "Before the race. Was it something I did?"

"What?"

He stopped and leaned on the gate to look straight at her. "Just listen for a second. I remember you ran off and didn't get Corvin's equipment in time for the relay. But I don't remember why. Or if it was my fault for some reason. I'm just blank. What happened?"

"Oh." Challis' tone changed, though she kept her pitchfork moving. "I see. Father and I got into a tiff. I guess it just… got out of hand, and we went separate ways. Do you remember that you were my backup for prepping Corvin's saddle? When I left, you… I guess you forgot."

"Dammit. Again?"

"And the cash units from spectators betting on the race are supposed to go to everyone who flies for the winning team," Challis said. "Small wonder Corvin took it so hard."

"What a nightmare. On the final relay match, too. But then why didn't Rib-eye, um ­–"

"Bury us alive?" Challis shrugged. "Your guess is as good as mine."

Rasalas leaned his forehead on a hand and sighed. "I hate forgetting, but I hate not knowing even more."

"Hey," she said softly, stepping up closer. "Look at us. We're mucking out the stalls. Tofflar wasn't killed, and we made it through the Exhibition. We don't need answers to everything, right?"

They stared at each other through the bars in silence, unseeing as they exchanged thoughts. Rasalas blew out a breath.

"Right."

They stood listening to the shrieks of the thrikes fading into the distance outside on another flight drill, and Challis felt her chest tighten. She had never even gotten to ride one. When her father had been chief director of all pterosaur services south of the sea border, he had been determined to let his twin son and daughter enroll in the program when they turned twenty. They would be a team, he had promised. But promises, in the face of humans prone to error, had been lost. Lost in a whirlwind of sudden, unwelcome changes.

One of those changes came whistling into the stable a moment later, and the siblings jumped back to work. Thax clicked past them and the wagon without a word. Like Rasalas, his stiff hair was swept back from his forehead, though his was banana blond and windblown rather than licked up by sweat. And, unlike Rasalas, a fresh tailored ensemble hugged close to his lanky frame and displayed the captain's badge that Challis still didn't believe he had earned on his own.

Jumping from peer to superior in a short time, Thax had been one of the few who hadn't entirely turned his back on the twins when they dropped down to the dregs of society six years ago. Challis appreciated him, though despising the way he always glanced around before talking to them. He hung a layered saddle on a wall peg and came back. Only when he had passed them the second time did he stop, make his customary check for anyone watching, and then grace the Gannagens with acknowledgment.

"I can't believe you made it through," he said, a smile jumping onto his face. He leaned on the edge of the wagon to watch. "That was a cheap stunt you pulled, Gannagen."

Challis slowed. Was he talking about the thrike delivery, or the relay race? Talking to her, or Rasalas? Thax always wore a grin, too, so she couldn't even tell if he was upset.

The meaning was lost on Rasalas as well, but he simply stepped around it.

"Please tell me you've got water," he coughed. Thax paused, then slid a canteen from his belt and tossed it to him. Rasalas, in turn, handed it to Challis, who took two grateful swallows before letting her brother finish it off.

"Liquid life, no?" Thax eyed him as the last drops disappeared. "You're welcome, by the way. I thought Forge would bust at the seams this afternoon when you both vanished, but he was mobbed by a crowd of congratulations after what I did during the race. Be glad you're alive. He was a real crackle-hopper."

Rasalas straightened and rolled his shoulders. "We actually got off easy," he puffed. "Guess he wanted to leave us some energy to finish this, and do the showgrounds. You still up for Rundabout later? Play for keeps." He wiped a hand on his shirt and held it out to Thax to shake, but lowered it slowly when he saw the other's expression. "What is it?"

"You should know," Thax said uneasily, his eyes on the manure still painting Rasalas' knuckles. "I hate to tell you this, but… oy, I sound like the messenger of –"

He swallowed and stopped before saying 'death'. Rasalas raised an eyebrow, and he hurried on. "Anyway, I heard him tell Scat he was going to wipe your wages from the exhibition. The whole two days, and the prep work."

The twins froze, staring at him. He shrugged. "Maybe he was waiting to tell you later."

"Yeah, when it would hurt the most," Challis said sharply. "Are you serious?"

"Serious as a beanstalk. And not just for the race. Something about killing a buck?"

Rasalas threw down the pitchfork.

"I was trying to save it," he said savagely, rounding on Thax. "I wasn't just going to give up on it. Not when there was something I could do!" When Thax didn't so much as take a step back, Rasalas turned and slammed his elbows down onto the edge of the wagon, thrusting his hands into his hair.

Challis lolled her head back and slumped against the bars. Silence echoed in the wake of Rasalas' outrage and settled into a knot in her stomach. She thought of her harsh words to her father. How she had run off in a mad dash to the cliffside cave and left the crowds behind. Then, the exhilaration of an idea, the splash of flux-fizzed water, then the feel of the first buck's body as she tugged it out in a cloud of doubt and terror of what she had done. Forge's anger was her fault. But…

"He can't do that," she whispered thickly. The thrike's nest blurred, and not just because of her double vision. She blinked fiercely around at the cage, and in the next moment, chose her battle.

A commotion of thrikes and handlers came into the barn through the far door. Thax pushed away from the wagon in a hurry and trotted toward them, smiling at the brunette in front. Rasalas gritted his teeth and turned away.

"Challis?"

He straightened to look around. "Turn my back for one minute," he sighed, then stopped. Realization slapped into him like a forkful of manure. So did fear, in about the same spot. "Dammit!"

Dry leaves crunched under his boots as he leaped the pitchfork and bolted out the door.

* * *

The sunshine screwed into her eyes, but Challis didn't stop for a second. All this about Forge, and the wages – this should never have come about anyway. All this, all the pain and humiliation, day after day after day, and for what? Bright sliding visions that endlessly plagued her with headaches, hardly a solution, and still not enough to appease the relentless onward roll of debt from the dirt-awful clinics in the hell-deepest part of this hellhole of a city. It had been better when she couldn't see at all. At least then she had been left alone, deep in aching darkness that had shut out the world.

Dust stuck to her shirt, stinging her raw hands when she tried to slap it off. Forge wasn't in the other stables or the pterosaur services office. Challis caught a whiff of smoke and took off at a run toward the wide canopies stretching over the open-air galleries where the afternoon meal was being prepared.

The jowled face appeared around a corner, accompanied by the swaggering strut that Challis could recognize even across the courtyard. She didn't slow down, all caution thrown aside as she cut the distance between them at full steam. Forge turned and saw her coming.

"Back for more," he announced when she skidded to a stop on the sand, panting.

"How could you!" she burst out as soon as she had breath. "You sadistic, double-crossing bilge bat!"

A lull in the activity spread out from them as people stopped what they were doing to look over, then the noise resumed just as smoothly when they saw who it was. Cooks went on flipping and stirring and chopping, and at any other time Challis would have been excited to see her favorite potato potsaaki being prepared with coconut milk and fresh herbs. The courtyard drifted with smoke from the fire kegs, the air colored with scents of lemon and thyme.

Forge spat off to the side and turned to climb a short staircase onto the platform.

"I have every right," he called behind him. "You neglected your duty. What did you think would happen?"

"It's over a hundred hours of wages!"

Challis climbed up after him but he spun back around, looming over her. "I – don't – care," his voice went all singsong under his scowl. "I don't listen to muck rats. You need to keep in mind, Gannagen, exactly how much your conduct affects your payment."

"That's just – that's rubbish," she sputtered. "We work to tatters to meet your demands, and blast how our so-called conduct gets to your head!"

Her back hit a barrel, and she ducked off to the side as a stack of platters waiting on top toppled off in a raucous clatter of hardwood. One edge mashed Forge's boot and he spewed out a string of curses, snatching Challis' shirt and jerking her up to within inches of his face.

"Enough!" he roared, spittle flying from his teeth. "If you want it, I'll give it to you. Just wait till I –"

He lurched at a hard kick to his shin and his grip on her loosened. Challis pulled away just in time for Rasalas to twist and throw the whole strength of his legs, hips, and shoulders into a powerful blow. Forge's head snapped back and the rest of him, taller and broader than Rasalas but caught completely unawares, crashed back into a line of cooks at their roasting stations.

Heavy iron grates, stacked three high, tilted and thudded down onto the planks. Rows of smoking fish, fruit, and vegetables flew and splatted and sizzled where they landed, or disappeared into the open hydroponic garden behind the platforms. One of the cooks tumbled off the far edge with a cry, closely followed by Forge's backwards stumble. The two of them mashed down a section of the garden, a multi-tiered duct system heavy with draping plants and water that sluiced free from the broken troughs and was lost to the sand. Baskets full of vegetables spilled until the ground was rolling with colors in all directions.

Challis sidestepped a whole roasted hawk reeling across the planks, gathering dirt and debris on every sticky surface as it wobbled and came to rest between Rasalas' feet.

His hand was still in a fist as he stood there, stunned at what he had done. Forge and the others were struggling back to their feet, holding where they had gotten bumped or smashed or crushed. One of the fire kegs had been wrenched out of its trappings and still trundled with a monotonous grinding sound across the platform, smoke spilling from its open end.

"Rasalas."

He and Challis turned their heads in sync to the side. A thickset man, shoulders slouched with a chronic weariness that etched up into the lines of his forehead, stood just beyond the platform. Graying hair fell over his ears and swept around his chin. An empty bag was slung over his shoulder, a forgotten roll of papers in his hand. For too long he just stood there, taking in the scene with a slow gaze that came to rest on Rasalas' stricken face.

He spoke in a soft, intent voice that drew the full attention of everyone within earshot.

"Come over here, now."

Rasalas numbly turned away from the wreckage. Without even a glance at Challis, he crouched and dropped off the platform without using the steps, and pushed his hands into his pockets as he approached. Behind him, voices muttered back to life, one at a time.

"Get those two out of here."

"Look at the state of this!"

"We've got enough trouble without ­–"

"It'll be a pain to replace those."

"Filthy muckraker, did you see his –"

The man tilted a glance back over his shoulder toward the winding terraces. Rasalas turned to go past him, but the other held a fist against his son's chest for a moment.

"Not a word," he said in the same quiet tone, "until I get there." Rasalas nodded at his boots. At a motion from her father, Challis followed her brother over toward trees that were shriveled in the heat without enough water.

* * *

"We should have expected this," Challis said in a huff when she reached the rampway just below where Rasalas sat on one of the benches. He had leaned onto his knees and was rubbing painfully at his knuckles where he had punched his supervisor.

"Challis," he sighed. "Father said to be quiet."

"I'm through with this. Rib-eye and the whole thrike mayhem can mold up black and green for all I care. We're fired anyway."

"Chall."

"Think about it. There's something more out there, a better outlet we can tap into. We're barely scraping by for essentials alone, especially with the flux shortage, much less paying off our debt. What can we do for another job, Ras? We can look around the city, beyond the North Bend, and leave this scrape behind us. There's nothing to stop us."

"Will you quit baiting me?"

"Just because father wants to stay settled here doesn't mean you and I can't explore other options. No, listen to me. What if we found something, anything, that comes with a regular, flat-rate stipend? Even just that sort of job would at least give us a timeline and we could fill out our debt with cycle installments and get reduction rates."

Rasalas shot to his feet. "Shut up or I'll tell him how you cheat at Rundabout."

Challis' excitement drained away. "You do and I'll tell him you're cuff wrestling."

They glared in silent stalemate, then turned away, feeling foolish.

Challis could see the blur of people milling about and filling up the rows of tables. Her stomach rumbled and she pressed an arm to it. What she had said to her brother kept wheeling around inside her head, but so did Rasalas' comebacks from past conversations. Their work here had been consistent, if low-grade, and familiar enough that Challis could manage by herself when she had to. And even if Forge fired them, which he most definitely would now, they could help their father start that saddle and leather commission business he had looked into. But would it be enough?

Two shapes made their way toward the terraces. One of them, Challis could tell by the heavy stride, was Trent Gannagen. The other had a brimmed hat and a snappy white tunic and pants. The two were gesturing in conversation, stopping in the meager shade at the bottom of the ramp until they finished, then Gannagen left the man there and continued up the rampway himself.

He sat on the bench next to his son with a puff of breath. Rasalas had returned to rubbing his knuckles and didn't look up.

"We're fired, aren't we."

Challis didn't turn around. She had her arms crossed, and after a hesitation reached her mind behind her to flow into Rasalas' eyesight. It was effortless now after years of practice, a broken solution to her constant double vision. In the close association of flux, of life energy, between her and her twin, Challis felt Rasalas' twitch of recognition as much as he did.

She heard her father's short, humorless laugh.

"I will let you talk to Forge yourself about that," he said. Challis saw him reach over and clap Rasalas on the thigh, though she didn't feel it. "You want to tell me what happened?"

In the silence that followed, Rasalas glared at the back of Challis' head, fully aware that she could see what he saw. His frustration eased into her until she felt goosebumps trailing eerily up her arms.

"He dropped our wages," Rasalas said at last. Challis saw her father's face for a moment, then back down to Rasalas' hands. "For the exhibition. And didn't tell us."

"Why would he do that?" The voice never rose above its gentle, prodding tone. It rarely did, when talking to Rasalas.

"We missed duty this afternoon."

"Ah. For the first time?"

"No, sir, not exactly. But that wasn't all."

And then they both were looking at her. Challis still faced away, glowering at nothing. Rasalas cleared his throat.

"Chall," he said, drawing the word out. "Care to add?"

She skimmed forward back into her own mind and then shook her head. "It was stupid. A tripwire, and we fell for it." Then she blinked and squinted down at the man in white. He had leaned up against a terrace wall and taken his hat off. Challis' mouth went dry as she looked.

"Ras," she called out. "Close your eyes?"

After a long moment, he did. The man down by the ramp sharpened into clear focus. What must have been his hair was a bleached stripe running front to back, contrasting sharply to black hair along the sides. A shivering memory poked into Challis, and she subconsciously touched the back of her head, and the scars there.

Finally, she turned around. Her father and brother sat side by side, Rasalas with his head down and eyes shut as if in prayer. Challis saw her father as she rarely did, every care line on his face and the symmetrical patches of gray in his hair and beard. His brows were still dark, as dark as Rasalas' hair, and they tilted down on the outside at such an extreme angle as to seem perpetually concerned and exhausted at the same time. His eyes followed suit, and made him look even older than he was. But his expression, though it should have been exasperated, gave her all the interest and attention he had.

Everything she had to say in her defense drained away in her throat.

"Thank you," she made herself say, "for getting us out of there."

He stood and crossed over to her. He reached down to take her hand, and Challis recoiled until she noticed him looking closely at the fresh blisters on her palm.

"What should we do?" she asked.

"What do you think needs to be done?"

Her jaw hardened. "I'm not taking back what I said to him. And Rasalas can't undo what he did."

Trent's eyes flashed, just for a moment, then he blew out a slow breath. "You want a solution, Challis?"

She paused, then nodded warily.

"You need to find the problem first," he said, closing her fingers in his. "You both do."

"What, that we need to stop and think for once?"

"I know you don't let anything stop you. But you must choose your battles better."

A short scoff of laughter sounded behind Challis, and her vision blurred as Rasalas lifted his head to grin at her. She turned to him, trying for a condescending look, but he just winked and went on kneading his fist.

Drat them both for looking so much alike, she thought. She was never getting away from either of them.

"I may have something for you," her father said at last. He turned to face the courtyard and sighed. "But first, go with your brother. Go clean up that mess, and find your boss. Then, there's someone who wants to talk to you."